


The One Left Behind [Johnlock]

by moriartysbae



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crime Scenes, Depression, Fluff and Smut, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-10-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 13:21:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2271246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moriartysbae/pseuds/moriartysbae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's fall John is left alone, depressed and broken-hearted. He thinks he only has one option left. Then when Sherlock eventually returns after almost 2 whole years, there are many shocking yet heart-warming revelations and confessions, however other more sinister problems are only just starting...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

23 months and 15 days had passed. 23 months and 15 days since Sherlock jumped from the roof of St. Bart's and fell to his death. 23 months and 15 days since John Watson stopped living, and started existing. Well, it would be optimistic to even call this existing... John was alone. Of course he had people around him; Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Harry his sister might sometimes visit and even Mycroft would occasionally text or call. But he was alone, completely and utterly alone. People wanted to help but there was nothing they could do. No matter how many times people tried to take his mind off of things, introduce him to new people, try and get him involved in new cases (especially since John had lost his job at the hospital) or even take him to see his therapist (although after a month or two of going to see her he refused to ever go again as it was completely pointless), no matter how many times they tried to fix him it never worked. He was still the same broken, depressed man. How could he ever be okay again? Sherlock Holmes was dead. The one man he loved was gone, and he hadn't ever even told him how he felt. And now he had to live with that.

Gold and red leaves swirled through the surprisingly clear, autumn sky before gracefully falling to land on the hard terrain of the road. John Watson stepped out of the doorway of 221B Baker Street and shrugged on his coat and wrapped a familiar blue scarf round his neck to protect himself from the remarkably cold breeze. He clutched at the scarf with one hand, simultaneously bringing the soft fabric up and lowering his head until his face was buried in the material that still held the sweet smell of the man he missed so much.

“Do you want me to come with you, dearie?” Mrs Hudson's sharp yet caring voice came from behind John. She looked at him with a sympathetic look that he had grown accustomed to receiving since Sherlock's death.

"Oh, erm, no it's okay. You stay here, I'll be okay by myself, I have to be..." John started to trail off as he became lost in his own thoughts once again.

"If you're sure." Mrs Hudson gave him an understanding smile and nod of her head before gently closing the door.

Nearly every day John went to the cemetery and visited Sherlock’s grave. He knew the route so well now he could probably walk there blindfolded. It was only around a 15 minute walk from the flat to the cemetery which meant John could visit whenever he wanted really. And he did, that place was practically his second home. Everything that had happened to him since Sherlock had been gone, he told Sherlock...well his headstone. John sat there for hours sometimes no matter what the weather; either talking, silently thinking, crying even. It helped somehow, he wasn't quite sure how, or why, but it did. Spending time there really made him feel like he was back where he wanted to be; like he was with who he wanted to be. Obviously there were other people in the cemetery most of the time but John gave up caring what other people thought long, long ago. Everyone knew about his situation, the newspapers were full of hardly anything else for the first few weeks after the fall. 'What will the blogger do without his famous detective?', 'Watson left devastated after Holmes' demise', 'Were this famous duo more than just friends?', 'John Watson; the one left behind'

Composing his thoughts and actions, John started walking towards the graveyard. Absent-mindedly strolling through the paved London streets John walked straight into the path of a blonde woman (who was probably around 40 years old) knocking the bag of shopping she was holding clean out of her hands. "I'm so sorry, I am... really, er... let me get that." He stumbled over his words of apology as he bent down to pick up the rectangular, brown bag.

"It's fine, don't worry, no harm done, ay?" She said with a genuine smile as she reached out her hand and gratefully took back her bag of shopping. "Sorry, do I, erm, know you from somewhere...?" The woman asked, cocking her head slightly to the side and raising one eyebrow questioningly.

John brushed his hand over his face, feeling the roughness of the stubble that had formed along his jaw line and the prickly hairs of his moustache. "You, er, you might do, yeah. I'm John Watson, Dr. John Watson."

"Of course!" She said in a tone of half delight, half sympathy. "Sherlock Holmes' friend, I remember now, seeing you two in the papers, solving cases together."

John gave a sad chuckle and repeated "Yeah, his friend..." He looked down at his shoes, nodding and forcefully squeezing his eyes shut to stop any tears escaping. He didn't care what people thought about him anymore, but crying in front of a stranger you just walked into might be a bit much even for him... The woman looked at him with a sad smile that seemed to have another attitude to it, that John couldn't quite make out. "Okay, I'm sorry again about, yeah, I've got to go."

"Of course! I should get back too really."

John tried to give her a smile but failed rather miserably, his emptiness and pain clearly visible. "Well, bye then, erm- sorry what's your name?"

The woman shifted her balance from one side to the other and took a short breath in. "Mary. Mary Morstan."

"Okay, sorry again about walking into you... Bye, Mary." John moved past her and continued on his way to the graveyard without a second thought.

The woman swiftly turned around and watched John walk away. She pursed her lips together tightly and squinted her eyes, before saying under her breath, "Oh... I think you'll be seeing me again rather soon, Dr Watson," and turning back to walk away. A crooked smile formed on her lips, the only poisonous emotion on her otherwise, hardened, cold-blooded face.

After another 10 minutes of walking, the street ended and led out onto a large field surrounded by a high, wrought iron fence. Large trees were dotted at various points in the field, there were a few wooden benches and a little more than half of the field was taken up by graves. John walked up to the tall, black gate and pushed it open with ease. He went in and let the gate slam shut behind him. After visiting the cemetery so many times John knew exactly where to go; he walked along the winding, gravel path as if he was on auto-pilot before coming to a halt in front of a familiar black, glossy headstone. The gold writing, reading 'Sherlock Holmes', contrasted perfectly against the black stone. There were some bunches of bright flowers resting against the bottom of the headstone. Most of them were put there by John but there were a few left from other mourners. John gave a heartbreakingly sad chuckle and said to himself "God, flowers for Sherlock Holmes, you'd hate this, I know you would.'Why give flowers to dead people? It's not like they're going to get them or use them? Completely stupid.' Or something along those lines, I was never very good at impersonating you..." John reached out a hand to touch the cold stone, stroking his hand along the curved top of the grave. "...After all, there's only one you. It'll always be you..."

Running his hand through the dishevelled, short, sandy blonde hair on his head, John crouched down before slowly sitting down on the short grass and leaves, his elbows resting on his knees. He looked slightly up to the gold writing and let out another small chuckle, that just made him seem more crestfallen than ever. "Almost 2 years, and I'm still sitting by your grave, not moving on. I can't. I know what they all think of me, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, all that lot; they think I'm stupid. They can't believe I'm still like this. Well neither can I really, nearly 2 years Sherlock...what have you done to me?" A tear fell from John's eye, running down his tired face until he brushed it away with the side of his hand.

"Mycroft texted me yesterday," John uttered to the headstone as he pulled his phone out from his coat pocket. He looked at the screen and read out loud "Caring is not an advantage, John. It's time to move on. -MH" John snorted as he thought about what Mycroft was telling him. "Your brother, your own brother telling  _me_ to move on? _He_ should be the one needing to move on, his genius, younger brother is dead!" A hint of anger started to grow in John's tone of voice. "Your own brother, and he's fine, completely and utterly fine. Moving on with his life like nothing happened! And me, I mean what was I to you? A friend, a colleague, an acquaintance, just some stranger you happened to live with?" More and more tears started to cascade down John's face. "And then I went and fell in love with you. You know I loved you, you know I _do._ You never missed anything for God's sake, how would you have missed that? Of course you knew..." John quickly pulled the small (although now smaller than ever from a lack of eating) frame of his body up from the grass, wiping the tears from his face as he did so. "But you weren't interested."

Turning to walk away, John stopped for a second. "I just want to see you again..." he whispered under his breath, before leaving to walk back to Baker Street. When John finally got back, he turned the key in the front door and started to make his way up the wooden steps to his flat. Mrs Hudson called up the stairs, asking John if he was okay, but she didn't get a reply as he just entered the flat and let the door slam behind him. With a deep sigh, he took his coat and Sherlock's old scarf off and placed them on the rack by the door. He took his phone out from his coat pocket and walked over and placed it on the desk

Even though it had been almost 2 years since Sherlock's death, John was just getting worse... He hadn't been able to sleep in God knows how long as the image of Sherlock hitting the cold, hard ground kept replaying in his mind over and over and over. Every time John thinks he has a second of peace from his mind, the painful memory hits him harder than ever. And of course he'd turned to alcohol as a way of coping (this seemed to run in the family). The only hope he had of forgetting everything that hurt him was getting drunk; which he now did, a lot. Sometimes it didn't help at all, in fact sometimes it made everything more painful but John felt like he didn't have any other option. Almost every night he would pick up a bottle of alcohol (wine, brandy, vodka, almost anything really) and sit down in the chair that was once occupied by Sherlock Holmes (of course John had never been able to move out of 221b Baker Street as that truly would be leaving and forgetting Sherlock). John had given up with glasses long ago and drank straight from the clear, glass bottle now. He didn't care what happened to him anymore; he just wanted all the agonising memories to be cleared from his head, no matter how much alcohol that took.

More often than not, John would just stay up all night, sitting in Sherlock's old chair, drinking and thinking about every aspect of his dim, empty life. Other nights, after what he'd established was enough alcohol, he'd go into Sherlock's bedroom, climb under the covers of his bed and try to sleep. Often it just ended up in John lying awake and trying to take in every scent of Sherlock that could possibly be left after he'd been gone for such a long time; other times John would eventually drift off to sleep but wake up not long afterwards in a cold sweat, panicking and madly thrashing around in the covers, shouting for Sherlock. Telling him not to jump.

On a number of occasions (far too many than he would care to admit), John had thought about ending it. Ending all of it. In fact Lestrade had rushed over to Baker Street on two separate occasions, in the early hours of the morning, after receiving drunk calls from John saying goodbye and that this was it, he was finally going to do it. He wasn't joking either, both times Lestrade had got there in time to find John sitting in his chair, one hand gripped on the arm rest, the other pointing a gun into his mouth. Thankfully Greg had managed to calm him down on both occasions, he talked John out of it and proceeded to spend the night at the flat keeping a watchful eye on him the whole time, but of course he had to leave in the morning and leave John to his own devices again. Mrs Hudson would try to stay and comfort him but couldn't spend her whole life looking after John either. John was depressed, but still as quick and clever as always. Never had he let Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, or anyone, take his gun away, take his choice away.

Finally, after 23 months and 15 days, John Watson had had enough, he was done. The evening sky was turning dark and misty, making the already dark and dusty room seem even more depressing in the low light. Slowly putting his hand out to reach the brass handle of the desk drawer, John's hand started to shake (and for once it wasn't because he was drunk). He forcefully squeezed his eyes shut to try and stop the flow of tears escaping from his eyes and streaming down his face once again today. With his eyes still shut, John opened the drawer and his hand scrambled around inside it for a second before clasping shut tightly around the grip of his gun. Head nodding slightly and eyes clenching shut even tighter before snapping open, he calmly walked over and sunk down into Sherlock's chair. 

The tears started to fall freely despite John’s efforts to remain calm, each droplet discovering a new path down John's face before dripping down and soaking the neck of his blue T-shirt. His right hand, which still tightly held his gun, raised from the arm of the chair and up into to his mouth, the barrel of the gun tilted upwards. His index finger slowly but surely wrapped around the trigger. Two minutes or so passed, John not moving and no sound could be heard apart from the occasional sob muffled by the gun in his mouth. After another minute or two of nothingness, John took the gun out of his mouth and started to mumble to himself. "Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes! Why did you do this to me? I loved you, why did you- why couldn't- why didn’t you stay with me...I'm sorry. I can't do it anymore I'm sorry. I did- I do love you..."

The sound of a gunshot rang loud and clear through the old building. Silence followed, until Mrs Hudson's shattering voice cut through the eerie stillness. "John! John! Oh God, what have you done? Are you okay?" Her voice grew louder as she hurried up the stairs and burst into the flat. The door swung open and almost immediately she ran over to John who was slouched back in the leather chair. "No, why did you- no." she whispered, mostly to herself. A warm tear traced the lines down her face as she knelt on the floor and took the gun from John's hand, placing it down on the table in front of them. There was a hole in John's t-shirt just below his ribcage from where the bullet entered, the wound and bullet still visible inside him.

Although Mrs Hudson had seen things similar to this before and managed to not be too disturbed, (she couldn't have avoided it, being Sherlock's landlady did present some challenges), seeing John like this made her feel sick to the stomach. Blood was flowing out from the bullet hole just below John's ribcage, dyeing everything it touched a deep, dark red. Blood was quickly dripping onto the chair and onto the floor. Mrs Hudson got up and rushed to the desk where John's mobile phone lay. She picked it up and fumbled around with the buttons for a few seconds, saying to herself "Oh God, how do you work this darn thing?", before holding the device up to her ear. "I need an ambulance" Mrs Hudson managed to say, her voice faltering half way through the sentence. "No, it's for my, er, my friend. He's been shot. Just below his ribcage, he's losing quite a lot of blood, just hurry" Her voice started to die away at the end of the sentence. "It's Baker Street. 221B Baker Street. Okay, yes, thank you."

While waiting for the ambulance, Mrs Hudson ran into the kitchen, picked up a tea towel and pressed it firmly to the bullet hole to try and stop the blood loss. She was panicking as she didn't have any clue as to how to help John. She couldn’t lose him too, not after losing Sherlock. John and Sherlock were the closet thing she had to children and the thought of losing them both in such terrible circumstances was more than she could bear. The blood loss slowed down a bit after a minute which helped, although whether John would survive this or not was still unclear. He'd been shot before, in his shoulder while he was serving in Afghanistan, but there's only so much the body can take.

Even though she knew John probably couldn't hear her, Mrs Hudson started to talk to him. It somehow made her calmer, made her feel like she was helping or comforting him in some way. "Why do this John? Why do this to yourself? Do this to me even? Dearie, we don't want to-"

Abruptly she stopped talking when she heard John give out a weak cough and sigh. His breathing became more shallow and rapid, tears fell from his face. "I, I should've done it." The words slowly came from his mouth, his face contorting into a grimace when the pain surging through every part of his body became too much to bear. "I... just want to be with... him. I... want him, want to see him. I love Sherlock. You know I- you knew I…" The last few words became even slower and more slurred, before John's breathing slowed right down again and his heavy eyes drifted closed.

"Oh John dearie, no, stay with me, stay calm. Don't you dare close those eyes on me you-. Come on, please..." Mrs Hudson was panicking more with each passing minute until the ambulance sirens could be heard just outside and the ordered voices of paramedics grew louder as they raced up the stairs. The emergency crew rushed through the door and two paramedics ran over to where Mrs Hudson was crouched next to John sitting in the chair, while two EMT's lay the stretcher on the floor and started to prepare an oxygen mask, drips, etc.

"Okay, you've been doing the right things, we'll take over from here. Well done. What's his name?" The female, brunette paramedic asked as she continued to apply pressure in the entry wound.

"John, ...John Watson."

"Okay, do you know how old he is?"

"He's erm, 38," Mrs Hudson stumbled over her words, the shock starting to affect her responses.

"Brilliant, okay. Does he have any allergies? Illnesses...?"

"No erm, I don't think so."

"Great. Can you hear me John? We're here to help to you, we'll take you to hospital." The woman said in an obviously well-rehearsed, reassuring voice. She didn't get any response from her patient.

The other paramedic, a tall, tanned man with dark hair and alert brown eyes, signalled to his female colleague and simultaneously she released the pressure from the wound as he took the T-shirt off of John's body so they could get a better assessment of the damage before re-applying the pressure to the bullet hole. More deep, crimson blood flowed out, almost a metaphor as the life visibly drained out of John. The male paramedic started to check John's airways before shaking his head and saying "We need an oxygen mask over here, now!" One EMT ran over and carefully placed the strap round the back of John's head and settled the front into place over his mouth and nose. The paramedics continued to do various assessments of his health, while EMT's started attaching various tubes and medical instruments into his wrists, on his chest etc. The haste and urgency to which they completed all this reassured yet also distressed Mrs Hudson at the same time. The paramedics were clearly worried about what the outcomes of this could be. All 4 medical staff carefully lifted and moved John over to lie on the stretcher and tied all the necessary straps, wasting no time in picking up the stretcher and carrying John down, out of the flat, and into the ambulance. Mrs Hudson followed swiftly behind them.

"Are you coming in the ambulance?" The male paramedic asked, gesturing to the seat beside the bed upon which John lay.

"Yes, yes of course" Mrs Hudson shook her head and walked up to the ambulance, climbed up the step, with some help from the man, and sat down in the chair. Another tear fell from her face as she took hold of John's unusually pale and veiny hand. "I know you wanted to see him again, but please- please don't die..."       


	2. Chapter 2

“Yes, now I’m back in London I think I’ll surprise John, he’ll be delighted!” Sherlock tucked his white shirt into his dark trousers, wincing slightly at the pain emerging from the wounds and lashes on his back. “How has he been?”

“Well, It’s a bit late for him to be ‘delighted’ Sherlock. He's spent almost 2 years thinking you're dead” Mycroft stated, slightly amazed that his brother could think after such a long time of everyone believing he had fallen to his death, he would be able to suddenly return and John would be simply ‘delighted’, no questions asked or any hard feelings.

Squinting his eyes slightly and taking in every detail of Mycroft’s slightly pained expression, a look of concern suddenly started to spread across Sherlock’s face. He stepped closer. “What is it? What aren’t you telling me? Is it John? What's happened, Mycroft?”

Mycroft took in a deep breath and contemplated how to word such a delicate matter that he knew would affect his brother a great deal. He let his eyes wander around the dark room for a minute, almost as if he was hoping to find some inspiration hidden in the corners of the building. Eventually he let out a sigh and bluntly explained “He's fallen apart, Sherlock. Depressed, alcoholic tendencies, God knows what else and- well...John shot himself, 4 days ago.” Sherlock’s face drained of any positivity or joy he may have ever had, his eyes became unfocused and glazed over; tears forming and threatening to spill over the edge (although Sherlock tried to hold his emotions back as best he could, there was no way he could let his brother see him emotional, or crying...) “He’s alive; he’s in hospital. He’s had some operations and needs a few more, but they all think he’ll recover completely in a matter of months.” Mycroft continued, trying to talk in the most reassuring and caring voice he could muster up.

Sherlock turned away and started to pace backwards and forwards in the small, ill-lit room. For a minute or two he just paced up and down the room, running his long, bony fingers through the wild, tussles of his dark hair, then down and over his face in an attempt to try and possibly calm himself down. Thousands of thoughts ran through Sherlock's, equally buzzing and shattered mind, every second. He suddenly stopped and turned to face the other man once more. He looked at Mycroft with a desperate, needing expression on his face that Mycroft didn't think he had ever seen Sherlock with before, and if he had it was certainly a long, long time ago. “I need to see him- I have to go- I, I have to...”

“Yes I rather figured you’d react like this, brother dear” Sherlock's older brother dropped all efforts of trying to put an empathetic tone to his voice. Mycroft looked at his younger brother with a knowing stare which was simply returned with a hard, questioning look. “I took the liberty of arranging someone to-” He was abruptly cut off when Sherlock sped past him, grabbed his long, Belstaff coat from one of Mycroft’s assistants that had just appeared at the door, and rapidly walked out of the building and into the street. “Same dazzling social skills as ever, I see.” Mycroft muttered as he returned to sit in his office chair.

Practically running out of the building (despite the clear pain his back caused him), Sherlock quickly slipped on his coat and slid into the back of the black car, ordered by Mycroft, waiting on the street just in front of the door. In a hurry, he banged the vehicle door shut and briskly nodded at the driver in the front signalling him to start to drive. The driver sensed the feeling of urgency coming from his passenger and wasted no time in pulling away and driving to the hospital. Sherlock was understandably anxious; tapping his fingers impatiently on his knees, staring out the window in a desperate attempt to pass the agonising wait. He never meant to hurt John in this way, or in any way at all. Of course he knew his death would have an effect on John, but he didn't foresee just how much... His 'suicide' was the only chance he had, the only chance of saving the people he cared about most in the world. Most importantly to him, John Watson.

Sherlock knew exactly what his brother had meant when he had glared at him, just a few minutes earlier. Mycroft was clever, maybe even cleverer than Sherlock and even with his apparent disinterest in such 'trivial' matters, Mycroft could easily deduce his brother's true feelings about Dr. John Watson. Most people who met Sherlock and John could easily see what was going on though; there was no need to be a genius to see something so clear. Not everyone would voice them, but pretty much everyone made assumptions about their relationship. The only thing is, Sherlock so often wished they were true... He'd never been with anyone before, or ever had any interest in being with someone. However Dr. John Hamish Watson turned up and changed all that of that. And now after almost 2 years apart Sherlock was going to visit him. They were going to be reunited. But before Mycroft had told him about John's condition, Sherlock was feeling good about seeing John again, excited even. The thought of John being any different to before he left never crossed his mind. Currently it was one of the only things running through his brain. Now he knew how much John had been affected by his 'death', Sherlock's heart twisted with the pain and guilt of knowing this was his fault. He had done this to his friend; his love.

After another 20 minutes or so of an agonising wait in the back of the car, Sherlock arrived just outside the hospital. He jumped out the car just as quickly as he got in it, and then rushed straight through the large, automatic entrance doors of the hospital. Bustling with disgruntled patients all demanding various things, loud crazy children running around and embarrassing their parents with their behaviour, staff urgently sprinting from ward to ward with clipboards and paperwork, the hospital was the very description of mayhem; however nothing could compare to the chaos in Sherlock's mind at this moment in time. He ran up to the reception desk and slammed both his hands down on the curved, wooden surface in a matter of urgency, which made the young woman behind it jump in shock. Sherlock demanded, "I need to see John Watson. Where is he? Which ward?" 

The woman, (who Sherlock deduced was around 21 years of age, had no interest in this job and had purely got it to help pay university fees, and was in a seemingly happy relationship with a man although he was cheating on her with her sister), nodded quickly before looking down at her keyboard and hurriedly typed some details in. "Ah, erm. Dr. John Watson, yes?" she replied in a meek voice.

"Yes, yes. Where is he?"

"Just go down the corridor, take the next left, left again and then the second door down the corridor."

"Thank you!" Sherlock responded in a grateful yet rude and exasperated tone, not particularly caring how he came off to other people. John was the only thing on his mind.

He burst through the double doors next to the desk and strode down the long, white, sterile corridor. The corridors were comparatively empty and noiseless to the large crowded unit in which Sherlock had entered the building; this just made the heart-wrenching thoughts in his mind hit him harder and louder. There was no point in Sherlock trying to push these thoughts to the back of his mind, they were the only think he could possibly think about now. He put his hands on his face, rubbing his hands over his closed eyes in an attempt to try and push back any tears that were about to run down his face. As he turned left, to go through the next set of doors just as the young receptionist had instructed, a familiar lady walked through the same doors and a piercing shriek echoed through the still corridor. 

"Sh- Sherlock? What are- you're dead!" Mrs Hudson managed to finally get some words out of her gaping mouth. Her hands shook as she reached out to touch Sherlock's shoulder

Sherlock looked quizzically down at Mrs Hudson's trembling hand before raising his own hand up to take hers and guide it back down to her side. "No- I can assure you I'm not..." Sherlock let go of her hand after a few seconds and put both of his in the deep pockets of his coat. He let his head drop down, closing his eyes, and bracing for the sure onslaught of shouting and accusations.

Instead, Mrs Hudson choked back a sob and pulled Sherlock into a tight hug. Somewhat reluctantly, Sherlock pulled his hands out of his coat pockets and draped his arms around his landlady's back. "This doesn't mean I'm not mad at you, Sherlock!"

Pulling back from the hug and returning his hands into his pockets, Sherlock laughed a little and said "Quite understandable..."

"It's more than 'understandable', Sherlock! Nearly 2 years! You know what it's done to John..."

"Yes, I know!" Sherlock said, raising his voice a little at the end of his sentence, the pain and upset becoming more apparent "I'm, I'm sorry."

"Don't worry, dearie. I dounderstand _this_. Come on..." Mrs Hudson tilted her head back in the direction in which Sherlock had been heading anyway. Sherlock nodded and walked down the next few corridors side by side with his landlady.

"Just through here." Mrs Hudson instructed Sherlock. They went through another set of double doors and into the room where John lay asleep in a hospital bed. As John was in a high dependency unit, he had a small room to himself. "They moved him in here yesterday, from intensive care, it's a sign that he's doing okay I guess."

"'Okay'?" Sherlock snorted as he sat down in the green chair next to John's hospital bed. "He's not okay, and it's my fault." He took John's hand into his own, stroking his thumb against John's soft skin. Raising John's hand up to his face, Sherlock leant forwards slightly and brushed his Cupid's bow lips against John's hand. Mrs Hudson who was stood in the corner of the room, smiled to herself. Sherlock then took in every detail of the room packed full of important medical equipment. John had different drips attached to various veins in his arms, tubes leading to various systems monitoring his vital signs etc, pads attached to his bare chest monitoring his heart rate, 3 different, small tubs of antibiotics were resting in the bedside table next to a half drunk glass of water. The only sound in the room was the consistent, steady beep of the heart monitor. John himself looked pale and slightly ill but remarkably okay considering his condition. In his sleep, all the worry lines disappeared and he looked at peace. "Where did he shoot himself?" Sherlock asked in a hushed voice.

"Oh, erm, just below his ribcage." Mrs Hudson replied, sounding like Sherlock had just snapped her back into reality from a daydream.

"Hmm.." 

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Sherlock answered, although there was clearly something going on his brain. He turned his attention back to John, who had started to stir and mutter a bit.

Before Sherlock could react, Mrs Hudson was already by his side. "Get over there!" She said, gesturing to the corner of the room. "If he wakes up and the first person he sees is you, God knows what'll happen!" 

Understanding her point, Sherlock let his hold on John's hand go and moved up from the seat before walking over to the corner of the room. Mrs Hudson placed a hand on John's shoulder, just as John's still tired eyes slowly started to flicker open. John closed his eyes and incoherently mumbled something again before snapping his eyes back open. Mrs Hudson looked down at him, "Ah, good mor-". Suddenly he stopped as his eyes wandered around the hospital room and found Sherlock...          


	3. Chapter 3

Time seemed to slow down, almost to a complete halt, for a few seconds as John began to take in what, or rather who, he was seeing. The once steady beep of the heart rate monitor became wildly raised and erratic. His bottom lip started to quiver, he bit down on it to try and stay in control of his emotions and this situation. However Sherlock had of course already noticed every movement. John's breathing became shallow as he struggled to breath due to the overwhelming amount of painful yet relieving emotions he was struck with. John forcefully snapped his eyes closed but that didn't stop a tear from escaping and trailing down his face. "No- no, no no, no... He's dead. You're dead. You're dead!" John yelled while shaking his head from side to side. Slowly he opened his eyes again, his gaze meeting Sherlock's. "You died, Sherlock!... I- I saw you..." John half shouted, the sudden lump in his throat making it hard to swallow. Sherlock simply kept his intense eye contact with John. "I'm going fucking mad. I'm probably hallucinating. Mrs Hudson, I bet you can't even see him!"

"John, dearie, don't be silly! I know it's a lot to take in. I'll, er, give you boys some alone time..." She slowly stood up from the chair and made her way over to the door. "You two, tell each other everything." She glanced back at them both, raising her eyebrows and nodding her head. "Right." Mrs Hudson opened the door and went out in to the corridor. The door gently clicked shut, leaving John and Sherlock alone together.

Taking in a deep breath, Sherlock slowly walked over to John's side and sat down in the chair once more. His eyes were red and filled with distress. "John..." Sherlock practically whispered. John looked up to meet Sherlock's gaze just another tear fell and landed on his bare chest. "I'm so sorry," he rested his elbows on the side of the hospital bed and ran his hands through his thick, dark hair. After a minute or so of silence, Sherlock pulled himself back to sit up straight in the hospital chair and looked over every inch of John. "I didn't have any choice. I had to do it; I did it for you." John chuckled slightly at this. "I did it for you." Sherlock insisted. "If I didn't do it- if I didn't jump they were going to kill you. Moriarty had snipers on you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, I had to do it." Sherlock's voice started to crack. "I never meant to do this to you. I know it's my fault but I-"

"-I love you." John interrupted. Sherlock's mouth dropped open and his tear-filled eyes widened. Neither of them could quite believe what had just happened. John's cheeks turned an embarrassing shade of red as he started to stammer over his words, "I- I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that..."

"Do you mean it?" Sherlock asked, eyes still wide and glistening. His heart beat so hard and loud, he was sure John could probably hear it. 

"Well, I- erm..." John looked down at the hospital bed sheets, his cheeks turning an even darker shade of red than before. Sherlock smirked and gently took hold of John's hand, before raising it up to his mouth and kissing it, just as he did while John was asleep. The heart rate monitor, which had previously returned to a fairly normal rate, started to beep faster and faster. John lifted his gaze to look over at Sherlock, who was still holding his hand and smirking. "Of course I mean it, you- you cock." John laughed.

"Good... good" Sherlock whispered, just loud enough for John to hear. He kissed John's hand again before moving his hand to link their fingers together. "I'm sorry, I am. Please forgive me, John..."

John scrunched up his face, screwing his eyes closed and taking in a deep breath. "Just- just promise me you won't leave me again. Ever. Please."

A single tear fell from Sherlock's eye and dripped down onto his crisp, white shirt. He used his free hand to rub his face and eyes, trying to stop any other tears from escaping. "Okay. I promise that I will never, never leave you again, for as long as I live." Sherlock squeezed John's hand and looked into John's deep, warm eyes. "I promise you."

John nodded his head, trying to take in everything that had happened in the last hour or so. "Okay, that's- that's good enough for me." He said, smiling his first real smile for a long, long time.

They spent some time in a comfortable silence, just enjoying each other's company as they had both wished to do so for so long. Eventually Sherlock had to ask something that he couldn't keep bottled up any longer. "...Just below the ribcage?"

"Hmm?" John mumbled, confused by Sherlock's sudden outburst.

"The bullet. Where you shot yourself. You're a doctor, you know where to shoot yourself if you want to commit suicide so... why choose there?" Sherlock tried to ask as gently and as caringly as he could.

John nodded his head again, "I'm surprised you held that question in this long," he laughed. "I thought about doing it properly. In fact I nearly did it, but in the end I couldn't. I never wanted to believe you were dead and there was still just that bit of doubt in my mind. I just wanted you to come back. And if you did ever come back, I didn't want to be gone. I didn't want you to go through the same thing I did." John choked a bit, trying to hold back tears

"I _did_ go through the same thing as you, John! Exactly the same. I spent the same amount of time away from you, as you from me. I just wanted to be back here in London, with you. You weren't the only one was alone. And I know that I used to tell you alone was all I had but, not anymore..."

John smiled again, amazed that Sherlock was being so caring and warm. "I know you have. I- I'm sorry. And thank you."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and cocked his head a little. "Thank you for what?"

"For coming back. For explaining. For not leaving when I blurted out that I love you. For caring..."

Sherlock let go of John's hand and pushed himself up, and out of the chair he was sitting in. He stood up and looked down at John, over every inch of his body visible before his eyes looked back to John's face. Simultaneously, Sherlock reached out a hand and carefully cupped it round John's face, and leant down until their faces were an inch or so apart. For a couple of seconds, neither of them moved; they just felt each other's warm breath on their face, felt each other's heart rapidly beat against their own chest, felt what they had been dreaming of feeling for so long. "Of course I care" Sherlock whispered in his effortlessly sexy, deep voice. Eventually John couldn't wait any longer, he cupped Sherlock's face with both hands and brought their lips together. John could feel Sherlock smirking against his lips as they kissed. Sherlock ran his hands through John's short, blonde hair as John stroked along Sherlock's cheekbones with his thumbs. The kiss was short, but filled with so much emotion it felt like it lasted forever. Sherlock pulled back slightly, breaking the kiss. He smiled and gave a deep, throaty chuckle in the baritone voice that John had missed so much. "Hey, what's so funny?"

Before Sherlock had a chance to reply, Mrs Hudson walked back into the room. She didn't say anything but smiled before closing the door behind her and walking over into the corner of the room. Sherlock, who was still leaning over John just like before their landlady entered the room, rolled his eyes knowing that Mrs Hudson would have something to say on this subject. John laughed slightly as he could tell what Sherlock was thinking. Ignoring Mrs Hudson's presence, Sherlock dipped down to kiss John again before he stood up straight and looked over at Mrs Hudson.

She held both her hands up and said in protest "I'm not saying anything!"

"Apart from what you're about to say..." Sherlock mumbled. 

"'Live and let live'. That's my motto. I knew it would happen eventually! I could tell from the moment I first saw you two together!" Mrs Hudson's smile grew wider and wider as she carried on talking.

"Yes, yes we get the picture, Mrs Hudson." Sherlock said dismissively

"-Hey!" John cut into the conversation, looking at Sherlock with a stare that told him to 'be nice'

"Oh, we kissed and now you can nag me even more? Is that how this works?" Sherlock teased.

"Yes, that's exactly how it works, so sit down."

Sherlock dramatically collapsed into chair and looked back to John. "Happy?" He asked sarcastically.

"Very..." John truthfully responded. He smiled at took hold of Sherlock's hand, linking their fingers "Very."


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock awoke early the next morning as golden light started to flood through the window. Slowly he opened his eyes and with a groan stretched his arms up and out to the side. He'd fallen asleep in the chair by John's hospital bed sometime in the early hours of the morning; he stayed awake for a few hours after John had drifted off to sleep, sitting there remembering every detail of what had happened. John telling him that he loved him, their first kiss, every detail and reaction on John's face. Sherlock safely stored all of those memories in his mind palace, never wanting to forget a single detail about the day he returned to John, the day he felt things he had never felt before.

After a night asleep on the hard, uncomfortable hospital chair, the lashes and injuries on Sherlock's back from his time away started to sting. In a couple of months the abrasions and cuts would go down, he'd be left with scars but Sherlock didn't particularly mind. They would just be reminders of that time in his life, reminders that he survived and made it back to John. He slowly stood up, wincing slightly at the pain, and started to walk around the room trying to walk off the uncomfortable feeling. Eventually the stinging went away, the dull, aching pain remained but Sherlock could easily block that out. He stared over at John, who was still peacefully asleep, legs slightly curled up under the sheets and one arm under his head. Sherlock smiled slightly without meaning to, or even realising he was doing it. That was the effect John Watson had on Sherlock Holmes; he was the only person who could help make all the pain go away and make Sherlock feel things he never thought he would.

"I know you're staring at me..." a tired and muffled voice came from John's direction.

Sherlock laughed slightly, mostly just to himself before responding "How did you know?"

"Well, I was getting up anyway but I must have been woken up when I heard you getting up from that chair, then I heard you walking back and forth for a few minutes before you just stopped, probably to stare at something knowing you, so I guessed it could be me. Actually, that would have been embarrassing if I was wrong..."

In less than a second, Sherlock was kneeling down beside John's bed, looking up at him with an adoring expression that John had never seen before. John carefully rolled onto his side, propping himself up on his forearm. "Well you weren't wrong. You're never wrong..." Sherlock told him. "...Well, apart from when you said you aren't gay." Sherlock smirked and flashed John a wink before leaning up to kiss the other man, stroking his hand through his short ruffled hair. John brought his hand up to Sherlock's face, gently stroking his thumb along his defined cheekbones as their lips continued to press together. After a moment or two, John pulled away and rested his forehead against Sherlock's. He looked into Sherlock's eyes, the deep, mysterious orbs of colour that John felt like he could find the answer to every problem in the universe in. John quickly smiled before leaning back in to resume the passion filled kiss.

When Sherlock stood back up and started to walk around the room, picking up various things and inspecting them before putting them back where he found them, John suddenly realised something. "Wait, when did you...get back?" John asked, thoughts still consciously rushing through his mind even though he was on a drip of morphine for pain relief.

"Yesterday. Then I came straight here to see you. Obviously." Sherlock replied, looking slightly confused as to why John had asked him this. Especially when Sherlock thought the answer was so obvious...

"So, you- you haven't been back to Baker Street?"

"No."

John sighed "You should go back. Go now, there isn't much of interest here..."

"There's you."

"Sherlock!" John's tone of voice became slightly sterner. "You know what I mean. Go home. It's not like I'm going anywhere soon..."

Sherlock groaned. "Fine. If that's what you _really_ want."

"Yes it is, so go on!" John insisted.

Sherlock gave in, a lot easier than John expected him to. Although of course Sherlock wanted to stay with John, secretly he was quite excited about finally going back to 221B. He had missed it greatly while he was away; he'd even missed things that he thought he didn't particularly like about the flat. "Okay- fine. I'll be back soon," he went over to gently kiss John on the forehead before opening the door and leaving the room. John sighed and sunk back down into his bed. Suddenly Sherlock reappeared through the door, "I will be back soon, promise..."

John simply laughed and shook his head, "Yes I know, Sherlock. Now go, okay?"

"Okay." and with that Sherlock left the room once again, actually getting further than the end of the short corridor this time.

 

In less than an hour, Sherlock was getting out of the back of a cab. He payed the driver and watched from the pavement as the slick, black car pulled away. In one smooth movement, he swiftly turned around and walked up to the all so familiar door of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock tilted his head back, taking in a deep breath. He put his hand in his deep coat pocket, feeling around for his keys for a few seconds before gripping hold of them. The key clicked in the door and it swung open. In somewhat of a hurry he ran up the stairs, two steps at a time, panicking slightly as to what he might find. After all it had been 2 years...

Sherlock froze in his tracks when he opened the door to the flat. Everything was almost exactly the same as when he had last been there. His papers and scientific equipment were still all over the desk, his books were still in the same place on all the bookshelves, 'Billy' was still sitting on top of the fireplace. It looked like Sherlock had never even left. Maybe that's the effect John was trying to create... After another minute or so of standing completely still like he was glued to the spot, trying to take in what all of this meant, Sherlock started to walk around his home. He first went into the kitchen; his equipment had been moved a bit but it was still lying on the table from the last experiment he was doing. Then he walked into his bedroom. Initially everything looked the same but then Sherlock noticed something. The bed had been recently slept in; the sheets were pulled back and crumpled and there was a light but noticeable John shaped dent in the mattress. There were also tear stains embedded on the pillows and next to them one of Sherlock's shirts lying in the bed. Sherlock couldn't stop the tears from flowing; he sat down on the end of his bed and buried his head in his hands. It hit him just how broken John had been, how broken he still would be. Those feelings can't just disappear. And the worst thing was Sherlock blamed himself for everything John had felt over the past 2 years. He left him and all of this happened. This is why John was in hospital after shooting himself.

"I did this..." he whispered to himself, "...But it's okay- it will be okay." Sherlock couldn't believe he was letting himself get this emotional and sentimental. But this was about John. And everything was different when it came to John Hamish Watson.

When Sherlock heard someone coming up the stairs to the flat, he immediately jumped up off the bed and brushed the tears off his cheeks. He ran into the living room and flopped down on the sofa, picking up a newspaper and pretending to read it. The door swung open and Mycroft walked through; twirling his umbrella in one hand and holding a brown file in the other. "Ah, brother dear" 

"Mmm" Sherlock simply looked up from the paper he was 'reading' and grunted in response

Mycroft was about to say something but stopped when he made eye contact with his younger brother. He looked over Sherlock's face, his eyes closing slightly before widening in realisation. "You've been...crying?"

"Don't be absurd, Mycroft. Of course I haven't." Sherlock defensively called back

"It's no use lying to me, brother dear." Mycroft responded while looking around the room absent-mindedly. "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock." Mycroft took a deep breath in. "But, I can tell he does mean a lot to you..."   

"I don't know what you're talking about" Sherlock insisted, looking back to the newspaper. 

"Oh do drop the act, Sherlock."

"Fine!" Sherlock half-shouted as he energetically jumped up from the sofa. "What do you want me to say Mycroft? That I love John? Okay, fine, I love him- I'm completely and utterly in love with him! And I hate myself for leaving and causing all of this. Happy?"

Mycroft tried to respond but could only choke out unintelligible sounds.

"Brilliant." Sherlock quickly snatched the brown case file out of Mycroft's firm grasp as he said this.

Mycroft finally composed himself enough to respond, "Ah, yes. Inspector Lestrade asked me to give you this..."

"Why couldn't he just give it me himself?"

"Well we were, erm, talking anyway and he asked me to hand it to you. Thought it might be easier as I was going to visit sometime anyway..." Mycroft said, trying his best not to blush at the topic of him and Greg Lestrade. "Anyway, that's not the point, Sherlock."

Sherlock was engrossed in reading the file at this point. His eyes quickly scanned through the pages of information, only taking the 'interesting' parts in. An ex army man named Oliver Sinclair, 35 years of age, recently back from Afghanistan. He was found dead in his small, North London flat the night before. No signs of forced entry or a burglary; the doors and windows locked from the inside. A single bullet to his head. Died instantly. The only sign of the killer left at the flat was what they left spray painted on the wall. The initials A.G.R.A stood out in black spray paint against the white, now blood splattered, wall.

"Well, are you going to help or not?" Mycroft asked after a few minutes, the impatient tone in his voice clear and demanding.

Sherlock stayed silent for a few moments before responding. "No. Quite frankly, I have more important things right now. I'm sure the police can try and do their job adequately without me just this once. Call me if it gets any more interesting."

Mycroft let out a deep sigh. "I understand... I suppose." Mycroft retrieved the folder from his brother, before turning around and heading to leave the flat. He stopped just as he reached the door, "Give my best wishes to John." Mycroft said without turning back around to face his younger brother. Sherlock simply hummed in acknowledgement of the comment before Mycroft nodded and left the flat.

Still overwhelmed with new emotions after what he discovered in the flat, especially in his bedroom, Sherlock took of his coat and lay back down on the sofa. He reached down into the pocket of his coat that was now laying on the floor, and pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, (he'd made the cab pull over on his way back from the hospital so he could buy some as he knew these next few days would be stressful, too stressful to rely on nicotine patches). With a slightly shaking hand, he lit a cigarette and put it to his mouth, taking a long drag. He softly blew the cigarette smoke up into the air as he felt a warm tear roll down his soft, pale cheek.


	5. Chapter 5

That night Sherlock could do anything but get to sleep. After nearly 2 years abroad undercover, he needed the rest but it was proving nearly impossible. He'd been lying in his bed awake, smoking his cigarettes, his mind running wild with thoughts of John. With so many thoughts and emotions Sherlock didn't ever usually feel, there was no way his mind could be at ease. The guilt about leaving John to think he was dead for such a long time was had been slowly tearing him apart since the day he left; he was distraught about John's depressed and suicidal state, he hated himself for causing all of this. But then there were other feelings pulsing through the heart of his that hadn't felt anything this amazing, this electric, before. Sherlock couldn't describe his love for John, after all, how do you describe the infinite? It wasn't just a purely romantic and sexual love either; he loved him in every sense of the word. Nothing could ever change that. And now they had admitted their feelings for each other, and kissed, Sherlock could feel his heart physically pounding with affection in his chest every time he thought about John, let alone kissed him.

Sherlock watched the late autumn sky grow darker and darker with each passing hour. The room was still in the dead of the night, the only movement the occasional flap of the curtains covering the window as a cool breeze ran into the room. The few and far between police cars speeding down the street outside, threw some bright light and noise into the room for a few seconds before leaving Sherlock in the silent, darkness again. But the darkness wasn't empty; he didn't feel empty. John wasn't there beside him but just knowing that he was now safe, and he did indeed love him back, was enough for Sherlock. Eventually, he put out his cigarette in the ashtray he'd placed on the table next to his bed and let his tired eyes slip closed.

 

"-Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson's loud voice cut through the silence like a sharp knife. Sherlock's eyes snapped open from the sleep he had somewhat unwillingly fallen into. The bright mid-afternoon sun glaring through his window was blinding in comparison to the cold, dark light he had last seen. Untangling his body from the creased, white sheets and raising his head from the pillow stained with John's tears, and now his own, he managed to let out a grunting noise to let Mrs Hudson know he was awake. "Sherlock," she called out again, slightly quieter this time as she just entered the flat, "-there's someone here to see you!"

In response, slowly Sherlock slipped out of bed and made his way out and into the main living room. "I told you yesterday, Mrs Hudson, I don't want any clients! I have to..." He stopped when he turned to see the woman standing next to his landlady. Sherlock could instantly deduce who she was. With blonde, slightly curled hair, she was a neither tall nor short woman, somewhere around 35 years of age. She wore a brown, leather satchel across her right shoulder; a few years old, the strap had been carefully fixed on more than one occasion so some sentimental value, although she hadn't used it for quite some time as the lines where it had been squashed into storage were very visible. Suggests a present from someone who used to be very close to her, most likely a romantic partner. The posture on the top half of her body was very good although her bottom half was the opposite. She had been taught correct posture by her family (most likely because of their military background), of course she never fully listened and only adjusted her posture when around her family. Obviously didn't care about what other people thought. Although for some reason she felt like she had to make a good impression for Sherlock. Regarded him as something other than a random detective. Her hands were noticeably shaking and she had bags under her eyes, this both strongly suggested a history of alcohol abuse and it suddenly becoming worse due to recent events. Sherlock deduced all this, and more, but surprisingly there was one thing that gave her identity away to Sherlock. Her eyes. They had the same dominating shade of green yet strong sense of care and compassion as John's. "Nice to meet you, Harriet..."

"Oh, Harry, please; I hate being called Harriet. But it's nice to meet you too, Sherlock Holmes..." There was a brief pause in conversation as they shook hands. "I assume the reason you 'don't want any clients' at the moment is because of my brother?" She asked, with an obvious hunger for a thorough explanation.

"Obviously." Sherlock let out a deep sigh, realising Harry wouldn't be satisfied until she had all the answers she wanted. But he understood, he knew that as John's sister she had a right to know everything.

Mrs Hudson walked past Sherlock and started to tidy up some of the old newspapers and general mess in the flat whilst quietly muttering to herself about how she wasn't their housekeeper but couldn't stand this mess. She brushed past Sherlock again, this time with an armful of unwanted papers. "Oh, do your shirt up Sherlock, I'm sure you're making Harry here uncomfortable..."

Sherlock looked down at his mostly exposed torso; he was still wearing the black suit trousers he had been wearing the day before and the same white shirt that he had just unbuttoned to go to sleep in. Sherlock rolled his eyes and tried to suppress a sigh. "Oh, don't worry Mrs Hudson, Harry isn't interested in male partners. Just as I'm not interested in female ones..." Sherlock looked over to make eye contact with Harry, hoping that she would understand he was trying to discreetly explain to her. "...So I doubt that I'm much of a distraction to her."

"Sherlock, there's no need to be rude!" She warned him like an embarrassed mother. "Anyway, I'll just be downstairs if you need me. Be nice Sherlock!" She walked out of the room, letting the door gently fall shut behind her.

Sherlock sighed and gestured to John's chair for Harry to sit down and in turn he sat down in the chair at the desk (Mrs Hudson had taken it upon herself to make sure Sherlock's chair was thrown away after John's attempted suicide). Harry sat down and leant back in the chair, clearly not planning to be moving any time soon. "So, what is you came to ask?" Sherlock asked, trying not to let his impatience show too much.

She chuckled almost silently. "John did tell me you always had such a way with words, Sherlock. What did you say? 'Harry's not interested in male partners, just as I'm not interested in female ones'." Harry continued to laugh under her breath, her eyes a seemingly unreadable mix if conflicting emotions. "So you told him?"

"If you mean telling John how I feel about him, then yes. Well, rather he told me. But yes, we are-" Sherlock waved his hand in the air the gesture he nearly always resorted to when he was searching for the correct word. "-together."

A small smile play at the corners of her mouth, clearly happy for both Sherlock and her brother. "Finally..." She remarked.

Sherlock started to get up from his chair and slowly walk out of the room, "Well if that's all you wanted to ask then-"

"-Oh no. Sherlock Holmes, we are not done here. Sit down." Her voice changed to a more commanding tone as she took charge of the conversation. Obeying her order, Sherlock walked back over to the desk and sat back down in the chair. He looked at her quizzically, narrowing his eyes. "I'm happy for you, Sherlock. I really am, I do hope you and John last. But, I just don't think you understand what John went through these past couple of years. Do you know what they called him?" There was a stern silence "No? They called him 'The One Left Behind'. It was everywhere in the news that you had killed yourself and left John behind without a second thought. You left him behind, to deal with everything. He wasn't even seen as a person anymore, just a depressed, suicidal pity case. He hated that. He couldn't cope. I'm sure you've realised that. He thought you were dead, for nearly 2 years Sherlock. And I know you coming back has solved a lot of things, but it hasn't solved everything; not by a long shot. And I know you left for his sake, and we're thankful for that, but he can't just erase the past 2 years from his mind..." 

Sherlock ran his large hands through the mess of dark curls on his head and leapt up from his chair. Pacing back and forth in front of the sofa in the living room, he let his hands drop to his sides and his head hang in a sense of guilt and shame. He shook his head from side to side slightly in an attempt to block out the painful thoughts. "I know."

After what Harry Watson had heard about Sherlock in the press, him being a particularly uncaring and harsh sociopath who took no interest in other people or their feelings, she hadn't expected to see him react in such a emotional way. Instantly it hit her how much Sherlock really must care for her brother. She got up from her chair and walked over to where he was still standing, with his head hanging down and his eyes scrunched closed. If it had been anyone else she would have hugged them, but she guessed Sherlock probably didn't care much for awkward hugs from people he hardly knew. "There was another reason I came here to see you, Sherlock..." He didn't look up from the floor. "I was going to visit John at the hospital, and I thought as you would probably be going as well, why not go together?" Sherlock's head snapped up at the mention of John and he looked at her, eyes wide and filled with tears. "I mean, after all, now you're dating my brother we should make an effort to 'bond'." Harry chuckled.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and let out a small laugh. "Okay. Erm, thank you." He agreed, nodding his head. He quickly buttoned up his shirt put on the black shoes that were on the floor next to the sofa. Harry was holding the keys to her car in her slightly shaking hand, obviously she had drunk a lot the day before. Sherlock slowly reached out and took the keys from the grasp of her hand, "Maybe I should drive."   


	6. Chapter 6

11 days, 2 operations, and countless arguments between Sherlock and various medical staff later, John was finally going home. In those 11 days, Sherlock had done practically nothing apart from visit John in hospital; after all he was basically the only thing that mattered to Sherlock and he'd promised that he wasn't going to let John be alone. Not again. Not ever again. So when the day eventually arrived for John to go back to Baker Street, Sherlock couldn't contain his excitement. Without John in the flat, Sherlock felt empty; like a part of him was missing. Sherlock obviously knew John still wouldn't be fully recovered, far from it, but John would be there, were Sherlock could care for him. Clearly, Sherlock was new to this whole 'relationship' lark, and with John being in hospital they obviously hadn't been able to be a proper couple yet. But now John was going back home, they could be the couple they both desperately wanted to be. Sherlock swore to himself that he was going to try everything he possibly could to keep his blogger happy.

John had undergone two further operations since Sherlock had been back. He wouldn't need any more (unless something went wrong), and he would make a near full recovery in a few months or so. A long line of temporary stitches ran down John's stomach and there was a scar, in the process of healing, from the bullet just to the right of the stitches. His normally bright eyes were tired and somewhat unfocused, even though he'd been forced to spend most of the last fortnight resting. However, despite the constant, dull, aching pain nearly all over his body as well as everything else, generally he felt better than he ever had before. And it's not difficult to guess who that was down to...

The biting cold wind snapped at the up-turned collar of Sherlock's coat as he walked through the main entrance of the hospital. Immediately, he was hit with the suffocating warmth and strange sense of overpopulation in the crowded building, he felt he had become far too familiar with recently. Sherlock knew the way to John's room off by heart, and walked along the winding corridors as if he was on auto-pilot. He hoped this would be the last time he would have to walk down these corridors to this room; he wished with all of his newly replenished heart that after today he would be able to delete the way around the hospital from his mind palace, and John would never be in danger again. Although given their choice of lifestyle, Sherlock knew the likelihood of neither of them being put in danger again was very, _very,_ remote.

Sherlock opened the heavy door to John's hospital room, and a large smile pulled the corner of his lips up when he set eyes on John sitting at the end of his bed, just finishing tying up his shoes. His long and slender legs carried him across the room, to the end of the bed where John was sitting. John finished tying the laces of his shoes and slowly started to stand up, his eyes narrowing slightly, as the pain still made it hard for him to move or do simple tasks. Instantly Sherlock took hold of John's hands and gently pulled him back down so he was sitting back down again. Sherlock himself knelt down on the floor in front of John, not letting go of John's comparatively small hands. Their eyes met in an intense gaze, John looking down in wonder at Sherlock's incomprehensibly beautiful eyes, and Sherlock looking up simply in awe that someone like John could ever have feelings for a 'sociopath' like him. "John, are you sure that you want to do this?"

"Of course I want to come home, Sherlock! It's all I've wanted to do since you got back" John scoffed, slightly confused at such a seemingly strange question.

"No, not that. Are you sure you want to do...this?" Sherlock briefly let go of one of John's hands to point to John then himself, before taking hold of John's smooth hand again. "Please don't misunderstand me, I want to be with you. I have wanted this for so long, and you're the only person I've ever wanted this with. But- I'm not good enough for you. I hurt you; I left you behind. I don't want to be responsible for doing that again, because you mean too much to me. I don't want you to get hurt or end up hating me... And I completely understand if you don't want to do this, if you want to leave me or if-"

"Shut up, Sherlock. Just shut up." John slid down off the edge of the hospital bed, blocking out any pain, and knelt down on the floor in front of Sherlock. Their legs and arms entwined as John pulled Sherlock impossibly close to him. "Shut up you idiot," John half-laughed as he pushed the wild, black curls of hair out of Sherlock's eyes and pushed their lips together. Tears trickled down both of their faces, mingling together where their lips were passionately interlaced, making the kiss warm and wet. John could feel Sherlock smiling slightly against his own lips. "I love- you- Sherlock. And I know- you hurt me,- you did, but I- also under- stand why you- did it, and- the reasons make- me- love you- even more. Nothing- will ever- change that." John whispered, just loud enough for Sherlock to hear, between kisses. Although John never wanted this kiss to end and felt like he could stay in this moment for all eternity, he moved his head back and looked into Sherlock's faintly red eyes. "Let's go home." John encouraged with a smile.

 

A tedious, but thankfully rather short, taxi ride later, John and Sherlock were standing on the pavement of Baker Street just along from their flat. John's bag of clothes and other items he had used while he was in hospital, was resting over Sherlock's broad shoulder. Somewhat unknowingly, both men held a hand out to their side at the same time; and without looking they found each other's hand and linked their fingers together perfectly. They stayed there for a second, perfectly silent and taking everything in, before Sherlock gave John's hand a gentle squeeze and they both walked along the pavement, up to their door. Sherlock used his other hand to dig into his coat pocket and pull out his keys. As the keys turned in the lock, the door clicked and swung open and they wasted no time in rushing in to their flat. As they reached the bottom of the stairs, John was about to start what would have been a straining and slow climb, but then he felt Sherlock's hands grip his sides. He turned around to face the taller man who stood just behind him and was suddenly lifted into the air. Sherlock carefully placed John over his other shoulder, one hand on the back of John's legs the other on his bum, and started to race up the old stairs.

"Sherlock! What- what are you doing?" John exclaimed, the tone is his voice half bewilderment and half amusement.

He didn't get a reply. Sherlock simply continued to race up to the top of the flight of stairs and then burst through the door to their flat. Instead of putting John down, he continued to walk with John draped over his shoulders. Sherlock let the bag slide off of his other shoulder and land on the floor in their living room, before carrying John into his bedroom. He gently laid John down on his back on the double bed, the sheets and duvet providing a refreshingly soft place to lie compared to the hospital bed he had been in for the past couple of weeks. In turn, Sherlock took of his coat and jacket, and climbed onto the bed to lay down next to John. Sherlock was lying on his stomach, burying his face into the mess of pillows and sheets. John wasn't quite sure what was happening or what Sherlock wanted to happen, so he just enjoyed the peace of the moment. He placed an arm around Sherlock's warm body and smiled as Sherlock leant into the contact and gently placed an arm over his stomach. John used his other hand to lightly trace patterns on Sherlock's hand that was draped across his stomach. 

Raising his head up slightly so he could look at John's face, Sherlock cleared his throat and began to mentally prepare how he was going to put his next proposition. "I like you being here- as in, in here- with me." John looked down to face Sherlock, just in time to see his pale, ivory cheeks turn to a warm red. "You were sleeping in, while I was gone anyway..." Sherlock continued, "So, er, why stop?"

"Sherlock Holmes, was that your way of saying you want to sleep with me?" John teased, knowing he could make Sherlock blush even more than he already was.

"Well, yes... Not 'sleep with' as in sex- no- well, not yet- unless you- no- erm, I-"

John couldn't control his laughter as Sherlock continued to stammer over his words in an embarrassed state. Eventually, he had to try and keep his laughing to a minimum because it was making the stitches and scar on his stomach hurt more than it did anyway. "God- you're so cute..." John murmured as he shook his head. "If you want, of course I will sleep in here with you. And yeah, not any sex just yet...". Sherlock let out deep laugh and leant up to kiss John, then buried his face back in to the bed, hoping to avoid any more embarrassment. John slowly slid down the bed and rolled over on to his side, so he was at eye level with the other man. "I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock raised his head up from the bed, and he too rolled over on to his side so he was facing John, the space between them impossibly small. John had told Sherlock that he loved him several times; however Sherlock had never actually uttered the words "I love you" to John. It wasn't because he didn't want to or because he didn't feel the same, it was because he was too nervous. Sherlock wasn't used to having these feelings pulsing through him and sometimes it scared him; it scared him that he could love and care for someone so much. He looked up into John's reassuring and warm eyes, and somehow he suddenly found all the courage he could possibly ever need. "John, I know that you are aware of how I feel about you, and I know that you understand feelings and things like this aren't easy for me... But I want to be everything you deserve, I want to be the man you deserve. And I know I'm going to have to work at all this stuff, but I want to, because I want you to be happy. And I know that you know this, even though I've never actually said it before, but- John Watson, I-"

There was a knock on the already open door. Mycroft Holmes walked in with the signature smile of his, beaming on his face. "Sherlock, brother dear..."

"What the _hell_ do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock half-shouted.

"There's been another one. We need you at Scotland Yard."


End file.
